


Alstroemeria

by peaknaivety (orphan_account)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop/Tattoo Parlor/Recording Studio, Alternate Universe - No Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beaches, Multi, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Weddings, blood mention, cancer mention, minor depression, so that exists now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:35:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25663711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/peaknaivety
Summary: Quentin Coldwater didn’t know what he needed. Grad school was a bust. His dad was diagnosed with brain cancer, and his own brain was broken again. His aunts, Zelda and Jane Schiff, offered him a part-time position at their shop, The Garden Path, selling books and bouquets, and he thought, "why not?" After they up and take off for retirement, leaving the shop in Quentin’s ownership, he accidentally figures it all out. This follows several years of his life in which he finds family, a dream career, and his soulmate. (Basically, everything he deserves and *more.*)
Relationships: Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker, Minor Jane Chatwin/Zelda Schiff, Past Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn - Relationship, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 27
Kudos: 48





	1. The Garden Path

**Author's Note:**

> This is all because of Courtney, kingquentin (also kingquentin on Tumblr), and James, jamestkirk (kadywicker on Tumblr).  
> Seriously though, thank you guys for galaxy-braining this Entire Thing, reading, editing, and encouraging me. I love you SO MUCH. :(  
> (Also big-time shouts out to Andi for having the biggest brain of all time. So much of this is because they are a genius.)
> 
> Here's the post that Started It:  
> https://kingquentin.tumblr.com/post/624296486084165632/okay-okay-okay-so-i-really-love-meatydanish-and
> 
> I have never written non-academically before, so I have no idea how this will pan out. :) I'll update the tags as I go. Stick around for the shit show?

_N.Y.C., May 2016_   


By all accounts, spring semesters should be a beacon of light for students, a sign on the side of the highway to inform them that the sun and the heat is back and they’ve almost earned a break. Destination dead ahead.

In a few weeks, the N.Y.U. cohort would flee the city, running for their third or fifth trips to Europe to discover rich cultures and become enlightened, or whatever that’s supposed to mean. If not that, then their immaculate internships were waiting for them, ready to provide another inch of text on their resume. Or maybe fall in love and never return. 

Regardless, it was safe to say everyone was off to live some grand adventure that Quentin Coldwater could never hope to emulate.

Unfortunately for him, the warm breeze dusting the cool streets and sun streaming on his face signaled the end of it all. The academic year was almost over. Between teaching some introductory courses to undergrads on the glory of the fantasy genre and his own exorbitant class load, there were deadlines, exams, meetings, and just about a thousand opportunities for the universe to let him know how behind he is.

As if he didn’t get enough of those reminders constantly. Like he didn’t already spend his free time lying in bed, staring at the wall. That’s what he happened to be doing then, in lieu of working or studying.

Tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes. He brought his knees up to meet his chin and blinked them away, hoping to stave off a breakdown for another hour. If he could just muster the strength to read one more article, he’d be on track, and maybe this week his advisor wouldn’t look at him like he was a charity case.

Instead, Quentin was paralyzed, stuck in the corner of his room, and doing his best to hide his sniffling from his roommate with the corner of his pilled-up, henley sleeve. The more he tried to stop himself the harder he spiraled. He didn’t eat dinner. He honestly couldn’t tell you if he had slept the past few days. Barely anything grounded him outside of the gaping hole right below his lungs, where he physically felt his shortcomings when it all got like this. Every thought was another piece of himself torn down from the inside, core tightening and head pounding.

How the hell had everyone managed to pass him by? He was the only one who hadn’t seemed to start his life yet. He applied to grad school, just to stay out of the real world for a little longer. Yet, he couldn’t even keep up with anyone at N.Y.U. His best friend was moving in with the love of her life after a whole year together. His dickhead of a roommate was about to graduate and go into the job market. Business majors for God’s sake. Alice had a position lined up at the public library as soon as she finished her program. All Quentin could do is sit around and think  _ really hard _ about some stupid fucking books.

He’s always been like this, and maybe he always will be.

Gentle knocks rapped a familiar cadence against the door, resoundingly hollow noise bouncing around his brain and stirring away the swarm of self-deprecation that plagued him. The energy necessary for a response escaped him while he recalibrated his senses to the world of the living.

“How long has he been in there?” Julia asked, muffled. The question obviously wasn’t meant for Quentin, although he knew it was about him.

“I don’t know. He’s not my responsibility.” Penny sniped back, “I just got tired of that grown-ass man sitting in there crying like no one picked him for dodgeball.”

“I’m sure,” She acknowledged him, knowingly, “Thanks again, Penny.” Then, there was a quiet jostling of the door knob.

Quentin was suddenly all too aware of the state of his room. Clothes were strewn about the floor that hadn’t been washed in weeks, while empty coffee cups littered his desk. He had enough oil compounded in his hair to run a car for the weekend. Hopefully that overwhelming, armpit stench wasn’t him, maybe he had left some Thai takeout tucked away in the corner of his room.

“Q, you’ve got to get up and let me in, or I’ll have Penny bust the door down,” Julia threatened.

Quentin scrambled, unused legs knocking and wobbling, over to the lock and clicked it to the side, granting her access in to see the worst of him. She had seen it before, and would probably see it again.

“Jules, I-” He began and fumbled, eyes darting from side to side and hoping that that would be enough of an explanation. He tilted his head back into the space, and she followed him in, wordlessly. As soon as he shut the door behind him, without a single complaint she tugged him in for a tight squeeze, her grip pinching the sides of his arms into his ribcage.

“You need to see someone.”

“I- I have before. I  _ will. _ I’ll go back as soon as the semester is done.” He attempted to relieve her. There wasn’t any time for counselling or therapy or  _ anything _ when there were papers to write.

“No, you need to see someone now,” she insisted, while he turned his head to face his window, chewing his lip in defiance, “Hey, you can’t live like this.” She tugged him even tighter for a moment before releasing him and backing away. Her gaze trailed up and down his form, assessing the damage. Flannel hung off him in angles, trudged up from the odd positions he had been lounging in for days, and his hair was tight to his scalp, weighed down without him washing it. She glanced at all of his tells around the room. Details making plain just where Quentin’s head had been at, probably for months this time. There was definitely a Starbucks receipt on his desk from January, but he really had been doing well enough.

“It hasn’t been bad since I, uh- I was sixteen. Everything’s fine,” he assuaged her, “I’m an adult. When things get bad, I can tell.” His Adam’s apple bobbed at the sentiment. Just because he could tell what was happening didn’t mean he cared. Maybe he should. Julia clearly did, if the steeled gaze he was met with was anything to tell by.

Julia’s eyes flickered down towards his socked feet, before rising to meet his own again.

“I’m not going to call you what I want to right now, because clearly you don’t need that; however, this is not me asking, Q. You’re coming with me.”

“ _ God _ , you’re just-” he sputtered, “can you not for one second?” Followed by another pause. Julia was considering.

“I love you, and I’m sorry,” She latched onto his wrist and hauled him towards the exit of his vile apartment.

“Wait, wait, fine. Let me put on shoes!” he huffed, still being dragged away from his nest. There was no stopping her now or ever.

If anyone could put the pieces of his brain back together it would be Julia. It was too bad, Quentin thought, that no one could truly fix what’s already been broken.

\--

_ The Magical Hills of Jersey, July 2016 _

Ted Coldwater was a man of incredible patience. Anyone who put up with Quentin had to be. From his petulant glares to intolerable Fillory rants, his father braved it all for him, and now it seems, it was Quentin’s turn to return the favor.

“It’s in the early stages,” Dr. Lipson explained, cautious and with that frown doctors do to let him know that they know it’s horrible, awful news – but it  _ is _ their job to deliver it. Stark, white, and sterile assaulted his every sense. If he couldn’t read the word ‘Hospital’ on the building in bright red lights, the stench of clean was information enough.

“So treatment is possible?” Ted inquired softly, eyes glued to the ground and misty like the man behind them was lost for the moment, retreating into himself.

“Certainly,” she went on, “but you should know, with brain cancer, it can be different.”

“Different how?” Quentin finally piped up, thick brows sunk into the middle of his face. Tired did not encompass how he felt at the moment. He had remained silent for the entirety of the meeting and all of the scans, sitting tersely by his father’s side.

“As in you might not be the same man afterwards, Mr. Coldwater.” Her pointy chin nodded towards Quentin, eyes flicking in the same direction, to acknowledge the question, but the response aimed to land at Ted’s feet. He remained pensive, letting a beat of eerie silence pass between the stunted trio. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, but nothing is guaranteed with this. As your doctor, I of course recommend pursuing treatments, and I would be happy to refer you to a specialist if that is what you want.”

“I’d like to take some time-” Ted responded.

“Dad,” Quentin interjected.

“To consider my options,” Ted continued, pointedly ignoring his son’s pleading looks. 

The words submerged Quentin, world around him fading away to static, while his father’s diagnosis repeated itself in the back of his mind.  _ Cancer. Dad wants some time, but it- it’s literally  _ cancer.  _ He doesn’t have time. _ Somewhere during the redundant monologue circling his head, Ted had checked himself out of the office, ushered them out of the E.R. and carted them back home in his mid-sized, suburban sedan. Typical, Quentin thought, of himself that he couldn’t have even bothered to drive when his own dad was sitting there with brain cancer, of all things.

He stepped into his dad’s house, a picture of New Jersey, middle-class normalcy with its clipped grass and brown, leather couch, to see the glaring evidence of what had happened mere hours before. Congealed blood had dried on the oak side table, from where Ted had lost his balance and cracked his head on the furniture. They had rushed him in for a scan to make sure there wasn’t any serious damage, and found a tumor, lodged right behind his cerebellum. Turns out he lost his footing for a reason.

“Don’t worry about it, Q,” Ted stated, “I’ll get to it in a minute.” The man made his way over to the couch, plopping down with finality. His neck slacked, leaving his head to lull back on to the cushion. His slippers fell off in the process of kicking his feet up, and sleep took him immediately.

Quentin wanted to scream and curse. At his dad. At himself. At whoever or whatever the omnipotent being is that calls the shots. Not only was his father being extremely casual about his diagnosis, but he could feel himself reeling, beginning to slink back into that headspace that landed him at home for the summer in the first place.

Slipping past the man napping on the couch, he dug the cleaning supplies out from beneath their kitchen sink. He lacked experience with this particular chore, but he settled for some Lysol wipes, figuring that had to be able to get the job done.

He snuck back to the soiled side table, and scrubbed it clean of any sign that life was going wrong. On the way back towards his room, he tossed the tainted wipe in the bathroom bin, and headed in to lay on his bed.

His childhood room stared back at him, looking every bit like Quentin Coldwater, ages fifteen to eighteen, in a nutshell. Or maybe even him now.  _ Fillory & Further _ posters promoting three different publishing runs adorned the paint-chipped walls, and his hand-painted figurines of the books’ characters sat on the shelves encapsulating the room. Martin Chatwin, his long-time favorite, with his wire-rimmed glasses and cable-knit sweater, was perched at Quentin’s bedside table. The miniscule recreation sat directly by his phone, hanging off of its charging cable by a millimeter.

Quentin thought to text Julia, but remembered when they spoke last week, she had mentioned a weekend away with Kady. They might have been at some winery four hours upstate, or maybe they’d just booked an expensive AirBnB for a few days to simulate excitement. Could have been dining at restaurants they couldn’t possibly afford, or getting new tattoos together. Regardless, he would never want to interrupt. Alice was always busy, plus, even if it had been a few years, their post-breakup friendship was still a little too strained to unload news of brain cancer on. There’s no way in hell Penny would care. Quentin would just have to handle this on his own, even if he knew that he could never be equipped to do so.

He huffed, looking up to the ceiling, and tucked his bangs back behind his ear. He needed a haircut. The tattered strands were almost to his shoulders, but after moving out of the city for a few months to pout at his father’s house, personal grooming had been put on the backburner.

Everything was actually. His grad school plans were up in the air, after the realizations he had made this summer. The unfortunate episode that Julia had been privy to earlier in the season landed him in crisis counselling once again. Dr. London had been insistent in her meetings that it would be best for his mental health if he slowed his pace for a while, maintain some sense of stability especially if he was to start on new medication. Meds were a huge commitment. He knew that much, and especially so when they informed him that they would be tinkering with his prescription and dosage until they found the right fit.

The crisis center in town made sure Quentin started meds at sixteen, after the first time that things got bad in his brain, breaking open and sending the calamity of his innermost-self reeling. Somewhere along the line, undergrad had kicked the shit out of him to the point where he couldn’t justify making his way to renew his prescriptions. So here he was again, getting back on the bandwagon, so to speak.

New Jersey suburbs were about as slow-paced as he could fathom, but fucking -  _ brain cancer _ ?

Try as they might, there was never a dull day in the Coldwater household.

Quentin reached into his comforter to settle his palms on the cool surface of his sheets, pressing into them to hoist himself into an upright position. Sitting up, he swung his legs out over the side of his bed and settled into the crook of his mattress to puzzle this all out.

Obviously, he couldn’t leave his dad like this, and he wasn’t really sure that he could switch to online or defer his grad program. Which was fine, really. Who needed an MA in English Literature anyways? Rarely anyone, so by default - not him.

Before Quentin could dig into any real decision making, his bedroom door creaked open from where he had previously cracked it. Ted stumbled in to see Quentin, stray tresses of hair slipping out of his hair tie to frame his face and hands in a frenzy before him.

“What’re you thinkin’ about, Q?” Ted asked, earnest, brown eyes pinching at the corners just like his son.

“Hey, you should lay down again. It- that was a long day, and you should really just go rest. Please,” Quentin pleaded with him.

“I’m fine,” Ted groaned, rolling his eyes just slightly, “It’s not like I didn’t expect this.”

“You what?” Quentin breathlessly urged.

Ted leaned onto the entryway of the door and raked his vision from one side of the room to the next. Maybe he was looking for clues, some proof that Quentin couldn’t handle what he was about to tell him. Finally, he sighed.

“That wasn’t the first fall.”

“Seriously, dad?”

“They aren’t ever that bad. That was the first one where I hit something important.”

“When?” Quentin demanded, “When was the first one?”

“About a year ago now,” Ted supplied.

“A  _ year _ -” Quentin sputtered, “how could you – why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve come home!”

“It wasn’t important.”

“What do you mean not important? You’re not important enough for me to care when you need help? Does impaired cognitive function ring a bell? Because I’d say that a pretty important symptom-”

“No, I mean I don’t want my son running back home the minute something goes wrong. This is how life goes, and I can’t be the person to stop you now that you’re finally living yours. I don’t want to argue about my decisions with you, Quentin. I’m tired,” Ted complained.  _ God _ , Quentin thought,  _ I am such an ass. I shouldn’t push this. _

“I’m- okay, so – I’m not going back to school in the fall,” Quentin stated, raising his furred eyebrows at a slant. Deft fingers worried the edge of his throw blanket, and he set his jaw in defiance, head cocked to the side.

“No,” Ted asserted, arms coming up to cross over the broad expanse of his torso.

“I won’t leave you here by yourself.”

“I’m going to call and talk to Dr. Lipson tomorrow about treatment plans. You’re not staying here on my account. Only stay if things are bad.”

“Well, maybe they are,” Quentin sighed. A beat of silence passed. “No, I- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t  _ weaponize _ that or anything.”

His dad didn’t dignify him with a response. The man’s eyes sunk to the ground as he stepped out of the doorway. Arms coming unlaced and reaching for Quentin, he enveloped him in a sturdy embrace. There was no greater comfort.

“I’ll go back if you promise that you’ll call me if anything changes. If you need help, or- if you can’t be alone, call me,” Quentin begged softly into the crook of his father’s flannel-clad shoulder. Even in July, this man wore long sleeves.

“I promise, Curly Q.”

\--

_ N.Y.C., September 2016 _

On the other end of the phone line was his father, voice cracked either from the dryness that overtakes a person when they endure chemotherapy, or maybe he was choked up with disappointment at Quentin’s news.

“Are you sure, kiddo?” Ted inquired.

Quentin could practically see the terse, drawn look on the man’s face. Quentin saw just the same features in the mirror every day.

The whole point of Quentin going back to New York had been to continue with grad school, and here he was dropping out. Ten-time-mathlete-champion, Quentin Coldwater, of all people was dropping out of school. It was grad school, but  _ still _ .

“Yeah. It’s the right move. For me,” he reiterated, corners of his mouth pushing into his wide-dimpled smile. The important part of the affair was that it wasn’t some manic decision made in haste. The new medication had levelled his chemistry out, and despite the remaining, nagging feeling of being lost, Quentin did feel like he was better off without the program.

With that, Ted’s solemn query was satisfied, left only to say goodbye.

“Well, then that’s fine,” Ted began, “I’ll see you this weekend?”

“Mmhm. Yup, I’ll be around. I love you. Be safe,” Quentin rushed out.

“Love you too, Q,” then, the line clicked into silence.

A sigh wracked his weary frame, resigned, while he shifted into the creaking seat of his desk. He glared pointedly at his thin laptop, dusty and wracked with fingerprints. There were so many emails to field in this process. He had only received one from a professor to check in on him, though that was no surprise seeing as he barely attended class last semester. The rest had to deal with the Student Affairs Office and the Financial Aid Office discussing his assistantship and his funding.

The monotonous trudge through his correspondence felt like a stream that would never end, but among his many orders of business, one email stood out in particular today.

The top left corner read: Zelda Schiff – RE: JOB OFFER!!!!!

That was- weird, to say the least. Quentin hadn’t seen his aunt Zelda in at least a decade, not since his mom and dad had first split up. The anomaly peaked his interest, having him click away at the subject line.

_ Hello, Quentin! _

_ We hope this email finds you well. Though we haven’t seen or heard from you in many years, know that we think of you often. _

_ My previous attempts to contact you have been ignored, though I suppose that it is entirely possible that that was due to me inquiring into your personal email as opposed to your academic inbox. Hopefully, this one will cross you. _

_ As for the subject of this email, it has come to our attention – by your mother  _ (Great, so she knew.) _ – that you are looking for a job. Luckily for you, your aunts, Zelda and Jane, are looking to hire in new help at our old shop – The Garden Path. _

_You haven’t been in since you were sixteen, but I remember seeing you curled up in the window nook at the front of the shop with those Fillory books. I sent you along with a bouquet of white begonias and coriander after our weekends together expired._ _Jane misses leaving those buttons around the store for you to gawk at like you’d found a portal to another world. Very few have loved this place as much as you once did._

_ Our location is still on Allen St.! Please come soon if you are interested. If not, still come. We miss you. _

_ With love, _

_ Zelda _ _ Schiff _

_ Co-Owner, The Garden Path _

_ (212) 903-0723 _

_ 271 Allen St. _

_ NYC, NY 10002 _

\--

Quentin hadn’t left immediately after reading the email, but soon enough after, he tossed his hair into a bun at the nape of his neck and flew out the door towards the quaint building on Allen.

He remembered every weekend where he had holed up there, dragging in a tattered throw to cuddle while he read for hours. While lost in the worn pages, the saccharine scent dripping from the diverse flower population spun, intermingling with the subdued musk of old novels.

Sometimes Julia would come with him. They would peak around corners and hide in stacks of boxes in the back, trying to compile evidence that his aunt Jane was actually Jane Chatwin, from the  _ Fillory & Further _ series. It was heaven on Earth. How had it been so long since he had gone back?

Regardless of whatever meddling his mom had done, since she thought he was incapable of handling himself these days, Quentin loved his aunts. Or to be specific, his aunts adjacent. They weren’t technically related. The pair was close to his mom, and had been for as long as he could remember. He vaguely recalled some story of a queer, women’s tennis club back in the early 2000’s. Good on her for being so confident in her bisexuality, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t still one of the worst people ever. Every mistake he made, every pitfall he crossed, she made sure she was there to criticize him.

Zelda and Jane weren’t like that. Mom would drop him off at the shop at six in the evening on Fridays, desperate for them to take over for her. They had had their own daughter, Harriet, who he had met on occasion, but who was already grown and gone by the time Quentin came around. The couple was infinitely happy to have him around, or at least they had told him as much.

After a brisk walk to the subway station and a few transit stops, messenger bag slung across his shoulder and a barely seasonal jacket, Quentin had hopped out of the rail car, making his way past the grimy underground terminal and into the air. It was New York City, so he couldn’t have called it fresh; however, it fared better than the suffocating feeling of public transport.

This exit had deposited him onto the corner of a crowded intersection. He never stopped glancing to his sides, making sure to stay as out of the way as possible should someone pass him up. Weaving through the masses, he emerged in the direction of his aunts’ business, hitting his stride and autopilot taking over from there.

Once The Garden Path was in his sights, it took a treacherous amount of effort for the man to not collapse on the spot, only waves of nostalgia carried him to the delicately decorated entrance. Arched windows and an assortment of flora graced the exterior, looming building masked with softness to lure customers in. The name didn’t exactly sell the product. No one knows what’s in _The Garden Path_ , but the sign, curved and jaggedly shaped to invoke the image of an open book, along with the rows of potted plants hung about in surprisingly elegant displays gave an atmospheric lure that was true to form.

Stepping into the whimsical sanctuary, Quentin was pleasantly swathed in layers upon layers of decadent aroma, some sweet and light, landing almost on the tongue, others sharp and clean, biting at the back of the olfactory system. The brick-red tile below tapped out the rhythm of his cautious gait, the sound echoing through the seemingly empty store and bouncing off the nearby bookshelves.

The counter at the back of the sales floor was unattended, but a perky bell sat atop the industrial countertop, waiting to call workers to the front.

He made his way back to give it a ring, fingers tracing along the spines of texts. Blossoms and vines hung down from the ceiling, occasionally hanging low enough to poke at his ridged brow line. Finally, he struck the bell, percussive ding ringing out. No response. Not even footsteps.

It was strange, but these were absentminded people that Quentin was dealing with. They were probably just up on the second floor, so he made for the staircase, tucked in the corner before the massive floral display on the right side of the shop. Its state was detestable to say the least. If he hadn’t known that Zelda and Jane had to use it every day to return to their apartment, he would have called it abandoned and beyond repair. Nails jutted out from the boards, and deep cracks filtered into the middle of almost every piece of wood.

Quentin sighed, wide mouth stretching into a perpetual frown, before tentatively braving the first step. He let his weight fall forward, and the fractured stair held. Thus allowing him to have meticulously made his way up the staircase, he turned to face the second floor of the eccentric building.

This level was eerily similar to the first in terms of the looming shelves and abundant, fragrant flora; however, looking out toward the back, fixed right between the towering windows looking out into the alleyway behind the shop, was a telephone booth. Quentin blinked purposefully, frown deepening for a moment, before recognition dawned on him in the form of raised eyebrows.

“Oh,” the utterance escaped him involuntarily, mouth hanging open in a small “o.” Memories flooded him, washing over in detail as he took in the familiar surroundings. The shabby, d.i.y. seat insert that his aunt Jane had crafted to its dimensions called to him, windows covered by the overgrown foliage draped from the ceiling. Beside the nook, stacks of middle-grade fantasy novels occupied the floor in droves, an homage to the hours Quentin had spent folded in on himself there.

He traced the side of the doorway with gentle reverence, loving gaze working its way around the inside. A rackety, old lamp had been installed for his convenience, as he pulled the connected chain it flushed the cavity in warm light. In doing so, he revealed the lining of the booth, plastered with polaroids of him and Julia and a variety of portal fantasy posters that had gone out of rotation in the shop. The booth itself was a  _ Fillory & Further _ reference, a lovingly, teasing purchase calling back to the portal Jane Chatwin had used in the midst of World War II.

Quentin sighed and tucked the hair approaching his ears back towards the nape of his neck. He swiped his finger over the left panel, and removed it to reveal a thick coat of dust. The side of his grin poked up, revealing a deep-seated dimple, and disappeared as soon as it came.

“They probably don’t take care of you any more, huh?” He inquired to no one but the telephone booth.

“Some attempts were made, but it really was disheartening to clean something we would never use,” Jane asserted, startling the man halfway into the structure.

Quentin immediately removed himself from the booth and spun on his heel, shoulders inching up to his ears to brace himself. He didn’t know who he was expecting, but was relieved at the familiar, albeit sudden, exposure.

“Oh, I- um. No, it wasn’t-” he trailed off, tripping over his own words, looking to explain himself for the assumption.

“Oh, Quentin,” Jane began in a thick, English accent before wrapping him into a tight embrace, squeezing once for good measure, “I  _ am _ pleased.” Quentin’s rigidity melted away as his arms came up to return the affection, eyebrows turning up in the middle.

“I missed you guys,” he spoke.

“We’ve missed you dearly. We hadn’t any idea that you were coming today, or perhaps I might have actually wiped it down,” Jane assured him, releasing him from her grip, but holding on at his elbows.

“No, no. It’s fine. I – uh, I just got the email this morning today and decided. It was basically on a whim,” he confided.

Without further notice, Zelda whipped around the corner, wrists afloat through the air to match her lofty temperament.

“Ah! Quentin. It’s good to see you,” she announced, nodding towards him and pushing her glasses back up her nose.

“Yeah, the same to you,” he admitted sheepishly.

“You received my email, I presume?” Zelda asked, while Jane still held his arms in place, as if worried that he might take off without some kind of weight to keep him down.

Quentin’s eyes sunk to the tile before kicking his boot-clad toe in exactly the same spot below him.

“I did,” he responded.

“Good. You can start today. Our rush typically begins in half an hour, so just in time.” Zelda mused, before turning to trot down the precarious staircase, clutching the railing on her descent.

“No, sorry- I should’ve been clear. I’m not-” he continued, calling over Jane to reach his other aunt.

“It’s lovely to have you back,” Jane interjected, flashing him a coy smile.

Quentin cocked his head to the side, before a resigned sigh left him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he deadpanned. It couldn’t do much harm to indulge them for the day.

She wrapped a lithe arm around him and pushed him toward the back room, whisking him away to dress and inundate him with the responsibilities he’d just signed up for unwittingly.

\--

The week flew by, or maybe it was two, but Quentin, in his search for a slower-pace, had come across just that – a gig that pays the bills and doesn’t make him want to hole up in his room for three days and sob at any minuscule mistake. He was lucky. The opportunity practically put the apple in its own mouth and served itself on a silver platter. Perhaps it wasn’t a career to lock into, but the mundanity and simplicity of the work grounded him. Plus, the owners  _ had  _ just made him a key-holder.

He hadn’t heard any updates from his father regarding his treatment. Ted called wondering if he was still coming home, and Quentin had regrettably dismissed him, worrying about disappointing his new bosses by skipping out on a weekend.

As per Zelda’s note left on the counter when he came in, she had set him to work in the back, trimming stems and prearranging their bouquet orders. As he manipulated the scissors, snipping away at the overgrown roots in focused silence, he wondered what it might be like to stay here for the time being. His aunts seemed just as content to have him now as they did back when he was a storm of a teenage boy, stalking around with pedantic rants and anxious nail-biting.  _ This could work _ , he thought.

He planned to ask them, whether or not this position held any permanence. That is, if they ever made it in today. Hours had gone by since opening with Quentin manning the front desk and their incoming online invoices by himself, which wasn’t impossible, just concerning.

Zelda and Jane were notoriously meticulous and had taken their shop into as much consideration as their marriage. In sickness and in health. He couldn’t help but wonder where they were as he fiddled with restocking their sunflowers, abrupt stems poking his palms as he placed them.

Time ticked away without the couple making an appearance, and his texts and calls had gone unanswered. Quentin tended to the regulars, and sold a few paperbacks off the stuffed shelves to a wandering customer in the afternoon. When he made his way to the arched doorway, jumble of keys in hand to lock up, finally the familiar faces showed themselves in the shop windows.

Jane tilted her chin down at him with a mild grin, batting her eyelashes once and gripping the suede gloves in her hand. Her wife beside her gave him a once over, tilting her head expectantly, before her heels clicked up the steps. She whipped the door open, gliding across the room to where he stood.

“Well done, Quentin,” Zelda remarked, nodding, “We were right to think you were the man for the job.”

“Yes, it’s marvelous how you’ve picked up so fast. It should be no trouble to leave the shop in your hands,” Jane noted, strolling up beside her partner in crime.

“In my hands?” Quentin blinked innocently, “Are you going on vacation or uh?”

The spouses clutched at each other, buckling with laughter, and wiped the joyful tears out of the corners of their eyes.

“No, my dear. We’re retiring,” Jane boasted.

“Retiring? So is this place – closing?” he asked, hiding behind the fringe of russet hair falling into his vision.

“No, of course not,” Zelda snapped, “It’s yours, if you’d like it. That’s what all this was for anyways.”

“I’ve only been here a week,” he muttered.

“You watched us do this for years. At times, I think you loved this place more so than we ever did,” Jane explained.

Quentin shifted his weight back and forth, glancing to the corner display, wrought with fallen leaves. He made a mental note to sweep that tomorrow.

“This wasn’t- I didn’t plan on doing, well, this,” he argued, “I mean not forever.”

“It doesn’t have to be, but right now, you do great work here,” Zelda claimed, “Why don’t you just stay here for the time being?”

“The upstairs apartment is vacant. Has been for years. You can take it,” Jane informed him.

“I have an apartment already, and a really pissy roommate who would kill me if he knew I was moving with no notice,” he pleaded, unsure even with himself as to why he was resisting.

“Quentin, it’s a rent-free apartment in New York City,” she chided. Who was he to argue with that?

Regardless, he paused to consider, lips tugging into a frown, before shrugging resignedly.

“Fine. I guess- I just can’t say no to you.”

“Oh, we know,” Zelda smiled and crooned, “Good thing too. We leave for the Maldives in two hours. Wrap things up here?”

“Um, what? No, my dad-”

“Yes! You have all the keys you need and we taught you all the store operations,” Jane finished, “Oh, also, Quentin, you should change the name. Step off The Garden Path.”

“Good luck!” Zelda called.

The wives scuttled out the entrance and into the street, gracefully waving at him while they piled into their parked vehicle. Their bright, cerulean car pulled out onto Allen Street and carted them off, whisking his aunts away on their next big adventure.

“Great. I really needed another responsibility,” Quentin remarked sarcastically, eyes rolling, but then he returned to business as usual, locking the front up and wiping the countertops. He could worry about the rest of this mess later.


	2. Florals & Further

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that took so long. I got nervous and then it just kept getting harder. :-) I'm ripping this out of me. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Once again, as in every chapter, I must thank Courtney and James. (Eliot too, if you're here :eyes:)
> 
> ALRIGHT COURTNEY IS A GENIUS AND A BABE AND IS DOING A SOCIAL MEDIA EDIT TIE-IN AND THEY ARE WONDERFUL AND HILARIOUS
> 
> https://kingquentin.tumblr.com/post/628194413682802688/the-start-of-my-instagram-tie-ins-for

_January 2017_

Soaked cardboard lined the curb outside Quentin’s apartment, edges sagging with the weight of condensation and over-packed belongings. He and Julia continued to stack the boxes in a pale sheet of snow, descending on the city and immediately melting on contact with the salted sidewalks. Thick flakes clung to his eyelashes, the nest of hair pulled taut behind his head, and his scratchy, wool pea coat. He had picked the worst possible month to move out. For the life of him, he should not have let Penny convince him to move until spring.

The worn soles of his shoes slipped every three steps up and down the staircase, but on his final descent he was able to manage well enough, pacing himself as he delivered his last package on the stoop.

Julia paused, whipping strands of hair back behind her shoulders, as melted snow worked the shape out of her curls.

“I forget how much moving sucks until I actually move,” Quentin lamented. Hot breath puffed out from him in an exaggerated sigh.

“Lucky you. You don’t have to do it alone,” she countered, smirking with fondness and a side-eye, “Let’s get these over to the shop before this turns into an actual blizzard.”

“Seriously. News just said there’ll be four inches down by five o’clock,” Kady cautioned, coming around the back-left corner of the lifted truck and onto the curb beside the tender pair. She clicked the latch off the rusted back of the bed, which creaked open, allowing her to begin the process of loading Quentin’s possessions. Hoisting the first box, she groaned, “What do you even have in here, Coldwater?”

“Uh- books, mostly,” he confided, “Between just personal reading and undergrad and then my M.A. program, they just kept coming.” It didn’t help that Quentin had never been excellent at packing. Before a move, there were just better or more important things to do, so it got put off until the last minute. That would have been fine if it were him doing all the work, but irritation glazed over Kady’s eyes, tensing her jaw and popping the vein right above her brow. Over the mass of her scarf, she flicked a heated glare to Julia, who only offered a paltry shrug in response.

“Sorry, I can get those for you,” Quentin muttered, stepping forward to support the sturdy hold Kady had on her load.

“Don’t worry about it,” she snickered. Then, stepping onto the truck bed, she heaved the box toward the front. After the first few boxes, Quentin realized she really was better off without him getting mixed up in all that.

“See you over there, babe,” Julia called, turning to leave her girlfriend to do the grunt work. She stabbed at Quentin with her forearm, intertwining their limbs forcefully before he had any chance to protest, and dragged him towards the bus stop.

They staggered a few blocks, quietly treading through the accumulation and bracing each other for warmth and stability. Their cheeks and noses were flushed cherry, and numbness set in after the snowfall had left their jeans water-logged. Stretching her neck out above her pillowy scarf, Julia turned to him, “I guess your life is really starting now, huh?” She pinched at the arm in her grasp.

“Oh, I-” Quentin croaked, clearing his throat before he continued, “I hadn’t really thought about it like that.”

“You own a business, Q,” Julia emphasized.

“Yeah, sure, but it’s not like I asked for it. I mean, Penny is even stepping in to fix some shit for me,” Quentin admitted.

In his periphery, he spotted a middling café, casting an alabaster glow across the already ivory-blanketed environment. He’d only been there once before, on his way to class in his final fall semester. It had been over a year, but he distinctly remembered paying seven dollars for a tall, black coffee; however, despite the reflexive bristle that accosted him with the memory, he would have paid anything for hot chocolate right then.

The long-time friends exchanged a shared glance of wordless understanding, immediately dipping into the heat to buy the sweet, powdery drink and forking over _entirely_ too much cash. They decided to take their treats with them on the rest of the walk, steps crunching back out onto sidewalk, where the snow was steadily overtaking the salt.

Quentin took a sip of the scalding liquid and came away with a thin film of whipped cream atop his lip. Julia giggled at the display, halting after making eye contact. She must have seen something in it, a willingness to engage that Quentin had no intention of projecting, because then she spoke the truth.

“Penny is helping you because he loves you-”

“ _Gross_ , Jules. Stop,” he urged.

“Just because you guys can’t admit that you care about each other doesn’t mean it’s not true. You’ve been friends and roommates for years.”

“He – he has a business degree. I have an easy first job and a rent-free apartment for him. It’s convenient.”

“Sure,” Julia sassed, sly grin intact. Quentin left it there, knowing that pressing her would only make this unbearable conversation run longer. In theory, he knew that Penny was at least his friend, it’s just that he could be such a callous _asshole_.

They trekked on in silence to the marked bench up ahead, and tucked themselves into the hooded shelter protecting the stop. The pair shook the ice out of their clothes and tussled the flakes out of their hair, hoping to keep it as dry as possible.

\--

Few plans were made that day aside from dragging his belongings up and down four different flights of stairs, but once the gang had finished, sweating through their layers of coats and sweaters, they crawled back into the heat of the shop.

Penny stood leaning over the counter, arms locked underneath him, raking his eyes across the mess that had become of the shop in the three days Quentin had left it closed. Between the poor weather and his status as the sole employee, the disarray was apparent. Hued, shriveled petals spotted the tile. If it were purposeful, it would have almost had an aesthetic lure to it, but it was obvious that he just hadn’t had time to sweep lately. Gaps in the bookshelves spanned a few feet in some places. Stocking had been on the bottom of his to-do list.

“This shit is a mess,” Penny remarked, working himself out of his coat, but leaving the draping scarf around his neck. He tossed the garment back on the counter and began to pace, scrutinizing the sales floor.

“I mean, it’s not like we would have much foot traffic anyways right now,” Quentin commented, “We can unpack before we worry about it.”

“I’m just saying you’re lucky I’m here to clean up your shit. Maybe you’ll make a profit.”

“Yeah, yeah. We get it. He’s lost without you,” Kady retorted, crossing her arms and biting the inside of her cheek. Penny shot a glare back over his shoulder, but didn’t dignify her with a response.

“Hey, how about we head upstairs and start getting you guys unpacked?” Julia proposed, seemingly airy; however, Quentin knew damage control when he saw it. Dialing Kady and Penny back when they weren’t in the mood to deal with each other was like defusing a bomb. No wires crossed.

Julia left her perch beside the frosted window, tracing shapes in the condensation, to slip her hand into Kady’s, and began tugging her upstairs. The rest of the group dutifully followed, in varying stages of exhaustion. After climbing up to their brand-new residence, they piled in through the door, squared away with paint-stripped lining. Quentin paused to stare at a dent in the frame, foot kicking into the notch just above the hardwood flooring. The resulting thud echoed through the cluttered entryway, the bright sound of thin wood bouncing around the reverberant space like trapped insects.

The preceding trio turned at the abrupt noise, checking to make sure nothing catastrophic occurred, only to find their resident nerd entrenched in a pit of nostalgia.

“Fillorian assassins mark the doors of their targets with a notch two inches above the-” Quentin began.

“Shut up, man,” Penny interrupted, “I carried actual crap for you today. I’m not listening to the Flinory nerd-shit.” Kady snickered in agreement, unable to help the contained smile that broke from her grimace. Julia spun on her heel to shoot them their own personal glares. Penny remained unbothered, while Kady shrugged and continued down the hall.

“You _know_ it's Fillory,” Quentin taunted, exasperation lifting his arms half-heartedly in a pleading attempt.

“Hell is real, and it’s you on your bullshit.” Penny retorted, wide eyes and a tilted head mocking Quentin, goading him even. He chose not to bite back this time, simply returning the impertinence with an annoyed stare. Without another word, Penny disappeared around the corner into his own room, pulling the door closed with more violence than necessary.

The remaining members of their party pushed past into the living space, meandering through the moving mayhem. Not a one looked up to the task ahead.

“You know what, maybe we should break for the day,” Julia suggested, “Dinner? I’m feeling either Chinese or Italian.” Her arched brow surveyed the area, circling around the couch to where Quentin and Kady had plopped down adjacent to each other. Reaching into her back pocket, Julia pulled her cellphone and began to flip through her contacts.

“Both sound good,” Quentin admitted, stroking his chin and weighing his options.

“Chinese,” Kady determined, before anyone could be allowed to consider further.

“Are we doing First Wok or China Garden?” Julia wondered aloud.

Then, as if he had never left in the first place, Penny appeared back from around the hallway.

“Is that even a question? China Garden,” he insisted.

Reunited, they broke into their own bickering, fondly chiding each other over minor details and strange order requests, as they had become accustomed to over the past few months. The conversation lulled while they waited on delivery, fatigue almost forcing naps all the way around; however, in the end, they managed to slowly blink their way through forty minutes. 10 to prepare the food, 10 to get it to the delivery driver, and 20 minutes to get the delivery driver safely to their door. Julia tried to justify it with an enormous tip, but Quentin and Kady still felt bad for forcing him out in the weather. Penny, on the other hand, could not have cared less.

“No one made him do anything. He still brought it,” he argued, immediately digging into their to-go containers to grab his usual, before he again made for his room.

The others remained in what little of a living room that they had, strewn about with their takeout and tiredness. Julia wormed her way in under Kady’s arm, curling up with her, while Quentin folded himself together, knees to chest, onto the floor.

“So, I don’t know if you saw that for-rent sign in the window next door,” Julia began cautiously.

“Yeah, both the buildings on either side have been vacant as long as I’ve been here,” Quentin offered, aimless. Without glancing back at his oldest friend, he wasn’t able to discern her intention, so he sat, clueless and downing his meal.

“I meant the right side. Tall-ceilings, kind of dark on the inside,” She furthered, poking him in the shoulder with her pointed toe.

“Um, sure,” he continued, finally quirking his brow up in her direction.

“What if we opened up shop next door?” Julia angled, looking to Kady every so often to emphasize her implications.

“You mean, like, the tattoo shop?” he returned, still searching her for clues with his animated, yet complex eyes. Sparing a second look to Kady, he noticed a nonchalant shrug and noncommittal purse of her lips.

“We’ve been looking for a space for the past year,” she reasoned in her girlfriend’s direction, before her attention spun back to Quentin, zeroing in, “But it’s right next door, and I know sometimes you don’t like if I hover-”

“No, come on. Not for shit like this. You know you can- That isn’t what I meant,” he explained, “I meant my hair length, or my clothes, or who I’m with even, not-” Trailing off at the end, he set his container down and reached for her delicate hand. Taking it, he locked their fingers together and shook their intertwined hands, hoping to convey his thoughts through osmosis. “I would love it if you guys were next door, Jules.”

“Okay,” she pinched the word into a smile, releasing his grip, and settled back into the open, waiting arms behind her. Respite creeped into the mix, allowing for silence between the gang for a moment, before Quentin couldn’t stand just the noise of eating.

“I think Penny’s t.v. is somewhere in the hallway. I could hook it up. Jeopardy?” he rambled.

“It’s snowing,” Julia scoffed, as if that should have been enough explanation, “ _Harry Potter?_ ”

“We marathoned it right before Christmas,” he complained, “We’re not doing your emotional support movie, Hermione.”

“ _Sex in The City_.” Kady supplied, finality evident from her tone to the stomp of her boot.

“You’re joking,” Julia sneered, whipping back and levelling her with a questioning half-smile.

“I’m not,” Kady deadpanned. The two devolved into a light-hearted argument, while he sat back, nodding when appropriate but really just zoning out.

Through the windows, visions of snowfall relentlessly bode down in a curtain, torrential and unyielding, punctured only by the meagre, warm grid of light filtering through other homes in the city. The world washed away in the flurry and white noise, and Quentin felt small and safe surrounded by his family. He made a mental note to call his dad after they ate.

_March 2017_

Murky slush turned gray with city muck squished beneath Quentin’s boots, remnants of snow a few days back that were protected only by the shade of the towering edifices. Beginnings of spring cropped up in what was now the later part of the month, meaning faint rays peaked out from behind clouds. Quentin had exchanged his overcoat for a thick, tweed blazer, and thinly-rimmed glasses slunk down the incline of his nose.

Through the melted slime, he pressed on toward Florals & Further. The remodel on his aunt’s shop had been completed over his weekend away in New Jersey. There was no more barely passable staircase, for one, and Penny had done a bit of rebranding in the meantime. A new sign hung above the entry, same shape, but in a bold, black-and-white scheme, the revitalized namesake ornamenting the design in a calm, serif font. It pissed Quentin off a little to admit that he liked what Penny had done, reminding him of the brazen interaction that had led to the change in the first place.

_“I kind of like The Garden Path,” Quentin whined, “We could just keep it.” He had shrugged while fussing with the vibrant asters._

_“You’re joking,” Penny accosted him, “It doesn’t tell the customer shit about what we sell, man.”_

_“Uh, yeah, that makes sense,” Quentin agreed. He remained thoughtful for a moment, pondering the possibilities for something obvious and yet still referential, before inquiring “How about The Rainbow Bouquet?”_

_“Why a rainbow?” Penny returned, surprisingly earnest in his curiosity._

_“For the Rainbow Bridge,” he stated simply._

_“Where pets go to die? What the fuck.”_

_“No, it’s uh- it’s a Fillory reference,” Quentin explained and averted his eyes. He tucked his hair back, as Penny let out an impatient groan._

_“No. No Flinory shit unless it’s not obvious.”_

_“I feel like that wasn’t obvious,”_

_“Well, you’re the dumbass that explained it to me, so-”_

_“Fine. God. What about Florals & Further?” _

Brick surrounding the shop had been repainted to suit the theme, white with a black outline, almost cartoonish from a certain distance; however, the simplicity shone a spotlight on the flowers, set about in a vivid display affront the windows. Calendulas and pansies, perfect for the brisk temperatures of early spring, flourished in their beds, primed to greet him as he swept past them into the shop.

Through the perfect, spoiled flora donned on either wall, past the emergent bookcases teeming with New York Times bestsellers, Quentin plodded around the back of the industrial, black counter with a stack of mail fresh from their P.O. box tucked beneath his arm. Taking said pile out from his clutch, he tossed the cluster haphazardly, aiming for a solid surface.

“What are you wearing?” Penny eyed him, “Seriously.” Quentin might have forgotten him, his friend benevolently manning the cash register, had he not decided that it was another day to be a dick.

“I’m trying something – a, just a look, I guess,” he sputtered in earnest, tips of his ears flushing pink. He stared down at the tan oxfords Julia had picked out for him, and plucked his cable-knit sweater away from his stomach to check for stains.

“Stick to the button downs, man. You look like a professor walked out of a thrift store,” Penny berated him.

“I know you mean that as, like, an insult, but I’m having a hard time finding it,” Quentin sassed, leaning his weight into a nearby wall, eyebrows knit together in mock confusion.

“Whatever,” Penny surrendered, returning to the phone he had tucked behind the register. A moment passed, allowing him to scroll through his social media feeds. Without looking up, he mentioned, “Fogg stopped by earlier.”

Quentin pushed himself off the wall and took a few steps toward the unaffected messenger. With the recipient remaining impervious to his quizzical stare, he caved, prompting a response, “and?”

“And what? I can’t read minds,” Penny huffed, cocking his brow with a mixture of disdain and disinterest.

“Is he going to consider Kady and Jules’ application?” Quentin persisted.

“Yeah, I think so.” The taller, ill-natured man responded.

“You _think_ so?”

“Push me again, son. See what happens,” he snapped, “I said I think so.”

Quentin peeled off, headed upstairs with a duly resigned frown, and avoided whatever moodiness had affected Penny for the moment in favor of a nap. He padded up the revised steps, knock of refurbished wood replacing the creak from before, without fear of nails impaling his feet.

Once upstairs, he stripped the costume he had on in favor of his flannels, before he collapsed face-first into his unmade bed. His weekend with his dad and his irritation with the only other employee of his business made for an emotional cocktail that sent him off, drifting to sleep.

_June 2017_

In bold, neon-red, Vicious Circe Tattoos hung above a set of back-lit, gridded windows. Inside, a heaping serving of darkness sans the usual melancholy decorated the interior of Julia and Kady’s parlor. Black walls and ceilings set a backdrop for intense, crimson seats, both for lounging and for the titular deed itself. The owners themselves scurried about the storage throughout, setting inks and sterilization supplies in their proper places before their first appointments took place tomorrow.

Quentin sat, stiff and wondrous at the same time, on a chaise lounge close to the entryway, gawking at the gothic details.

“Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I would think you were vampires,” he remarked, scanning the corners of the room. He didn’t want to miss anything.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Kady called, still diligently attending to her stations.

Julia remained silent, probably infinitely more stressed than she wanted either of them to know, as she reached into cabinets and straightened knick-knacks on the shelves.

None of this was really Quentin’s speed, but Kady was probably in heaven. Where she was happy, Julia was happy. That’s what mattered to him in the long run. Besides, the juxtaposition of this place next to his dainty, little flower shop was infinitely entertaining.

“You should get a tattoo,” Kady suggested, as if it was the most casual affair in the world. He inspected the couple now, tracing the ink that adorned both their skin. It was all undeniably beautiful, but – _needles_.

“No, um- I’m okay. Never been a fan of voluntary pain. Thank you though,” he sputtered. That had managed to get a laugh out of Julia, who crouched a little in the midst of her cackle.

“Can you imagine Q with a tattoo?” she giggled.

“I could do it if I wanted one, but I don’t, so-” he spoke, feigning disinterest with lofted brows and purposefully apathetic glances.

“Are we pretending you didn’t beg your dad to get ‘This was Fillory. A land of magic.’ on your shoulder for two years?” she antagonized him. Her ever-apparent mix between smug and affectionate tainted the badgering. Quentin pretended he didn’t hear the semi-snort that escaped Kady, in favor of staring down the more pressing enemy.

“We are, actually. We are ignoring it,” he confirmed, standing up from his seat in one fell swoop. “I have to get back. Pennifer’s break is over in five.”

“I’m telling him you called him Pennifer,” Kady barked a laugh.

“Please, don’t,” he pleaded softly, turning to make for the door, before he made the short trek back to his own business. Julia hollered some distracted goodbye on his way out, and Kady left him with a dismissive smirk.

Bracing the humidity, Quentin stopped outside Florals & Further, trampling the sidewalk in favor of checking up on the flowers in the outdoor display. He bent at the knee, sinking to press through the petals of a particularly droopy scaevola. Penny must have skipped watering yesterday when he opened, because the _god damn_ things looked parched. A frustrated puff escaped Quentin, frustration quickly melting away into a pout, like ice left out on a beach. The feeling just left a sad, nagging puddle of disappointment for him to deal with.

“Florals & Further, huh?” came a drawl from behind him, somehow both sultry and chirpy, “Painfully obvious Plover reference. Are you the nerd behind the name?”

Quentin slowly turned to face the inquirer, unsure if she was addressing him or not. He twisted, standing and taking her in, stilettos, starched dress, cat-eye sunglasses and all. The list grew as he made his way back up to standing upright, and he clocked the designer branded on her clutch bag. This was a real adult with her shit in order, must have been here to have some fun with him.

“I am. Can I help you?” He snipped, not quite squinting but suspicion made plain nonetheless. He shifted his weight between his feet, and broke the defiant eye contact he had bravely maintained.

“No, you can’t,” the stranger stated simply, smiling like a ham and offering her hand in a delicate extension, “I’m Margo.”

Quentin fumbled to take the offering, limply clasping her hand, before he performed an approximation of a handshake. Then, a break in conversation overtook the pair, one he took a moment to realize was a quizzical pause.

“Oh, um- Quentin,” he gave his own name, nodding and smiling and blinking and desperately trying to understand why she was talking to him. Aside from the fact that she was objectively stunning, she seemed busy. Literally so. In her bag, her phone continued to ping with an onslaught of notifications like a ten-year-old had discovered the bright, upper-register of a xylophone and you were unlikely to hear the end of it anytime soon. His bracing awkwardness didn’t seem to bother her though, she continued to stare him down, assessing him in a way he felt unequipped to understand. Finally, irritation from her ringtone prompted a barb from him. “Are you going to get that, or-?”

“Aw,” she pouted, “you are not cute enough to be that bratty.”

Quentin flinched, squinting and shaking his head slightly. He opened his mouth to respond, but found himself dumbstruck. Who said shit like that to strangers? Shyly, he shuffled his feet beneath him, staring back into the ground like that might make her go away. The veil of hair that fell in front of his face was almost enough to hide the glaring blush that had fought its way up past his neck into his cheeks.

“Okay, okay. I see. No talky right now, huh?” Margo realized, pushing her shades up. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her phone and began casually scrolling through the unending stream of messages, while she turned to take her leave. “I’ll see you around, Quentin.”

He didn’t look up to watch her exit, only listened for the tell-tale clack of her heels growing softer the farther she was from him. Finally she was gone, and he scrambled to return to the fortress behind him, his own world in its walls.

As he swung the door open, spilling into the shop Penny appeared around the bend of a bookcase, seemingly out of thin air. His brooding form loomed over Quentin, who almost thought better of giving him pause. Ultimately, he decided it was better to see what he wanted. Ignoring Penny was grounds for a six-foot deep trench of shitty interactions for however long he felt you deserved the punishment.

“They’re putting in a record store next door,” Penny mentioned with all the nonchalance in the world.

“Where’d you see that?”

“Nowhere,” he admitted, “You met Margo already, dumbass.” In the palm of his hand, a business card, slim, bold, and black and gold glinted in his hand. It read: Royalty Records. Scanning the rest, he found a scant amount of contact information, but that was all. No names. No address. What was the point in the minimalist design if she wasn’t going to maximize her space?

“The- the wannabe socialite who berated me on the sidewalk?” he asked.

Penny made no move to acknowledge Quentin’s bitchiness. He simply dropped the card on a nearby shelf and disappeared up the stairs, leaving the anxious, floppy man to his own devices.

___

A few weeks passed without incident, mid-June giving way to the pervasive heat that preceded July. Quentin was juggling weekends in Jersey and work in the city whenever he wasn’t with his dad. The remodel seemed to be doing wonders for the shop. Well, that and some elaborate social media campaign that Penny was dead-set on managing by himself. Apparently, Quentin was “using Instagram all wrong” and “was embarrassing him.” That was fine, one less thing for him to worry about.

Julia and Kady’s business was taking off, the pair distracted by their steady stream of appointments more often than not and working on design ideas late into the evening when they commandeered his couch, too lazy to go back to their own apartment until the sun had long since set.

He hadn’t seen Margo again except for in passing, parades past his windows complete with a wink and a wave.

It all left him comfortable behind his cashiering counter, only leaving his post to discuss products with his customers and sweep the petals from the floor. Penny would come and go, relieving him of his duties only long enough for him to prepare new flowers for the sales floor and organize the back room. When he wasn’t busy, he maintained a permanent residence in a showy chair by the books, pulling whichever title struck his fancy that day and settling in to pour over its pages.

Today, it was some middle-grade fantasy epic by an up-and-coming author. The prose wasn’t all that bad, but the magic system was ill-defined. He stayed attentive thanks to the queer romance that was clearly forming towards the beginning of the book. While it was by no means his favorite, he found himself lost in it anyways, absorbed into the story in earnest.

He didn’t hear the bell jingle to signal the entrance of a customer. Instead, he remained curled in on the wingback seat, plush and black, crushed velvet, with his nose buried almost into the spine of the novel.

In the distance, it almost sounded like someone cleared their throat, like there was a discernible rumble turning into a muted cough, before finally, they grew tired of his distracted demeanor.

“Excuse me?” An airy, baritone drawl managed to plunge him back into reality.

Quentin squinted, pulling his eyebrows together in confusion, before blinking his way out of his haze. As he came to, essentially looking over the entirety of the man before him, he had the good sense to blush, embarrassment stemming not only from being caught in this state, but also from the nature of the man himself.

Tall was the first thought, as Quentin scanned him, trying to force his eyes to make eye contact. The drag up his lean body seemed to take ages, and in the process, he noted the slacks, button-down, vest, watch, the list went on. He was put together in a way that Quentin could never hope to be. There was a vein that popped right out of his right hand and traversed the better part of his arm, and a dark swathe of curls sat in a crown on his head. Quentin watched as the man pushed his sunglasses, Raybans, into the mop and then noticed the pinched, unaffected glaze in his deep, hazel _shit. Fuck._ Quentin was staring.

“Oh, God. Uh- hi!” he squeaked, not realizing he had curled in on himself further. His forehead hurt, he noted as he realized just how wide his eyes had been for so long. “Sorry about that,” he breathed out, exasperated and moving to get up. He slung the book back into the seat behind him and sprung up on his feet, landing, albeit wobbly, a few feet away from the handsome stranger that he just spent a solid minute gawking at.

“It’s no trouble,” the man smirked out, glancing down at the nametag on his chest, “Quentin.” Readjusting himself, he brought the sunglasses back down all the way to just below the bridge of his nose, letting him peer at Quentin from over the rims. He reached down to tug the panels of his vest down and assumed a stance, indicating he was waiting for something.

Quentin was fixated on his hands. _Oh, he’s waiting on me._

“How can I help you today, uh- sir?” he sputtered out, a novice actor doing his best to adhere to a script. He clasped his sweaty palms together and rubbed in an attempt to soothe the nervous energy threatening to consume him.

“Eliot,” he offered, pointing to himself, “I’m looking to get a bouquet. Something extravagant. A declaration of undying love.” That drama and loftiness of all that had tracked. When you looked that good. Sounded like that. Figured that he wasn’t single. Not that Quentin was considering anything. He met him five seconds ago, and God knows if Quentin has a league this man - Eliot - wasn’t in it. Not even in an adjacent one, or even in the vicinity.

“Well, there’s actually, like, a lot of flowers that symbolize love in a bunch of different ways,” he explained, striding over to retrieve the customer a chart showing the different symbolisms that species could convey. Quentin had made them specifically for these occasions. As he handed the man one to consider, his hand visibly shook. The chart hung gently in his hand as Eliot hummed patiently, leaving it there like he couldn’t be bothered.

“Why don’t you just make me something pretty?” The question landed more like a request.

“Yeah, I can- I can do that for you,” Quentin padded over to the counter, grabbing sheets of tissue paper and wrapping plastic, ingredients for the craft.

“Excellent,” Eliot continued, “Do you do deliveries?”

“We do,” he noted, distracted as he already began to mentally pick out the components. He took inspiration from the man’s outfit, white, tan, and gold. He might not have tan and gold flowers, but he had known some that might compliment it well.

Quentin led him to the counter, and they quickly settled payment. Eliot, hair slightly bouncing, slinked back over to the entrance, tugging at the leaf of a sidelined sunflower before he reached for the handle on the door.

“Oh, shit, uh- where is this going?” Quentin called, somehow completely blanking on every procedure in his pathetic, rapid-onset pining.

“Bring it next door, when you’re done. Royalty Records,” Eliot mused, but Quentin had clammed up at the simple mention. _Margo’s boyfriend._ “Thank you, Quentin.” Then, with a smirk and the grace of a tomcat, Eliot slipped back out of Florals & Further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @meatydanish on tumblr!


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